


Observations Made After Being Shipwrecked for 1,652,667 Seconds

by BaegentWashington (RyanTheFreewoodGuy)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:50:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4044787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyanTheFreewoodGuy/pseuds/BaegentWashington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash gets lost in the sway of his hips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observations Made After Being Shipwrecked for 1,652,667 Seconds

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a tumblr post by  
> teamtuckington: "I need a fic where wash is pining over Tucker's hips like ASAP"
> 
> sorry not sorry

Wash has no idea when it started.

Okay, that's complete and utter bullshit. Wash can tell you the exact moment this all started (down to the second, to be honest).

It was the nineteenth day since their ship had crash-landed on this God forsaken planet. Nineteen days, three hours, four minutes, and twenty seven seconds. (I mean, hey, hanging around York and Delta had definitely left its mark on Wash, okay? This has nothing to do with his compulsive need to micromanage everything and thus shoulder the weight of the world to distract him from those skeletons in the closet that he locked away years ago. Seriously. Just. Stop reading into it, okay?)

Anyways, 1,652,667 seconds after their ship so gracefully swan dove into this fucking canyon, Tucker walked into the kitchen to pour himself some coffee. He lazily raised one hand to rub the sleep from his eyes while the other stretched upwards to pull his body into a gentle arch. The motion would normally have gone unnoticed by Washington, a simple gesture that just further illustrated Tucker's sheer inability to cope with a soldier's lifestyle.

No, had everything been normal, he would've begun barking orders a little louder than necessary just to fuck with the shorter man. But everything had very decidedly not been normal. He hadn't really noticed it at first, now that he thinks about it. He had just idly glanced up at Tucker as he stumbled through the door, headphones faintly playing tinny R&B music. As the man began fixing his coffee (no cream, five sugars – "deliciously smooth, impossibly black, and tooth-rottingly sweet, just like me," he'd always say, eyebrows waggling), Wash's eyes quickly found his subordinate's shoulders, deceptively corded despite his intense dislike of anything physical that didn't involve getting his dick wet. The freelancer allowed his gaze to follow the strange teal markings that swirled across the dark flesh, a bizarre side effect of getting knocked up by an alien, apparently. The patterns radiated a soft light that only served to attract the blond's attention even more.

Swooping and swerving, electric light cutting through the terrain of Tucker's skin, the markings that curled around his arms and down his back and chest started to sway gently. Tucker had turned around with his eyes closed, sipping his coffee earnestly while his head bobbed slightly in time with whatever beat he was hearing.

And apparently the rhythm overcame him because before Wash knew it, the Simulation Trooper had set down his mug and had graduated from innocent cranial elevations to God damned dancing. Washington had to admit: the guy was really fucking good. All his past bravado had mostly just brought subpar performance and a heavy dose of sheer luck. But this? This was unacceptable.

Before he could stop his brain, it decided to establish a new religion to worship Tucker's hips. His eyes had already set off on their holy pilgrimage to the gorgeous indentations surrounding those hip bones. The silky boxers (which were curiously the same shade of grey as Wash's old armour... and also highly unnecessary) sat low on his hips, allowing more of that delicious V-shaped paradise to peek over the waistband.

The way Tucker's hips swayed with the music was downright sinful. The man's muscles were rippling with each gyration, the light of his markings blurring as his arms came up to hover above his thrown-back head. Washington found himself wondering just how far down those marks went. If they continued their theme of... wrapping around... body parts. (It's totally not a creepy thought and he totally definitely doesn't imagine what he'd look like with a cyan-swirled cock between his own swollen, pink lips, or how those marks generally sent a pleasant buzz through his skin when they touched due to the weird alien science that created them and how that buzz would feel pressed against his prostate while he rode the space marine like a mother fucking cowboy because, God, why the hell would he think about those things?)

Apparently his private show (seriously, how is this awkward twenty-something year old with the crazy dreads so good at that, like, when did he even have time to learn those moves and Christ that move he just did would most likely kill a lesser being) had left his own body needy and desperate and longing to slide behind Tucker and grab those perfect hips, those hips forged from Heaven's finest and meticulously crafted by God himself. He needed to press sloppy kisses against that exposed neck.

Before the elder soldier could stop himself, a slender hand found its way into his loose sweat pants and an animalistic moan poured from his lips.

What he needed was to take care of this rapidly growing ... _situation_ ASAP without Tucker connecting the dots to see how far gone Wash was from simply watching an impromptu dance session. Tucker's eyes shot open, the eerie but enchanting teal meeting the piercing grey that were blown open wide with lust. With a yelp, the Freelancer slammed the door of his room, hand frantically rushing to get himself off so he can go back to locking the ghost of Tucker's hauntingly beautiful hips away with the rest of the shit in the closet (on second thought, maybe "closet" is a too appropriate metaphor right now because Wash had never felt more gay in his life, not even after that all-guy gang bang he'd had a couple of years ago. Don't ask, alright?).

But if Wash thought about it, and I mean _really_ thought about it, he would've realised that Tucker hadn't startled when he had heard Wash's moan (as if he'd known he was there the whole time) or that his movements had been precise and fluid (as if they'd been planned) or that Tucker's boxers had a bit of a damp spot (as if _someone_ was just as aroused from being watched).

If Wash thought about it, it shouldn't've been a surprise to hear a soft knocking on his door exactly 67 seconds later, or feel the sweetest coffee-flavoured lips against his own 24 seconds after that, or find his fingers skating over those mesmerising hips 3 seconds after that. 

It shouldn't've, and yet it was. But honestly, this was a surprise Washington couldn't find it in himself to mind.

He did, after all, have a new altar to worship at.

 _Hallelujah_.


End file.
